


Where Religion Meets Redemption

by thelastbarricade



Category: Hemlock Grove, Hemlock Grove (Netflix)
Genre: M/M, WOO, basically a lot of roman and peter feels with you know THE BONUS OF SORT OF PORN?, church, inspiration for things get me places, really emotional basis for sex okay, submissive!peter, top!roman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastbarricade/pseuds/thelastbarricade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roman refused to acknowledge the emptiness, the space he coul feel growing in his mind. He replaced the thoughts with the scent of Peter Rumancek, his Gypsy boy; burying his lips in the crook of the other boys neck. Inhaling in warm slow that spiced scent he'd come to know so well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Religion Meets Redemption

  "Ah, _jesus_ -,"   
    
  Roman's nails raked down the length of Peter's back at the slightest groan, words falling by the Romani's lips like they were meant to linger on the hushed words of the Gypsy prince under the heavy heat of Roman's kisses.   
   Clawing at the man, like the animal who was so easily before him, Roman pulled Peter through the doors of the church; the scent of dust and mold flooding his senses as he tossed away his wintercoat to invite in the chilled Autumn air. He was so unusually pale, so cold by nature that he could not feel Mother Nature's breath beating at his back as he pushed Peter inside, kicking the door shut behind him. The furnace under his grasp, groaning out God knows what, was enough to ensure the lack of catching any colds, of course.  
   
   Roman could feel the smirk of the boy beneath him on eager lips, leaving him barely able to breathe past the scent of cinnamon and clove that cloaked both their skin now; skin so hot it hurt to think of a parting breath. Hurt to think of anything besides Peter's touch.  
  
  With lush lips the young Upir let his touches rain down, lips slide down and hit the long, strong, _hard_  muscles of Peter's throat and the bobbing Adam's apple.  
  
  "Just give me a sec-" Peter couldn't reach for the leather braided belt and buckle of his pants under Roman's grip, the way the Upir Heir held their bodies so close, the obvious hormonal change in them both evident through thickness in both their jeans; the heat surfacing and honed there on the sweat and breath of the two teenage boys. Roman simply refused to let his grip loosen. One arm lay at the Romani's hips, clinging their fronts together in jean clad tightness, other up and tangled in those ungodly curls. Curls he knew could smell like honey when Peter so wished it. Like freshly fallen pollen and the water from the ponds that dotted the Pennsylvania town.  
  
  " _No_." Roman growled out his words with a finality that echoed deep in his chest so harshly it seemed to cause his rib cage to rattle in its cage. The authority in his words ached in Roman's skull, like the powers that he so rarely used on the humans of Hemlock, every word fell with purpose. Only with Peter, that control wasn't contained or pointed, it was released in a fullness that Roman Godfrey didn't know he could be subject to.  
  
  "I can't-" Peter let one of Roman's thighs slide between his own in a futile effort to dominate a boy so obviously intent on lead. Peter's jeans hitting Roman's fabricated friction so relentlessly it but teased the tip of the Romani's satisfaction was like a topping to a treat he'd never expected. His lips brushed Roman's as the taller boy pressed their foreheads against one another. His heavy smile perked on lips made ruby red. Peter tilted his chin forward, eyes dark and blown to a whole new realm of hell.  
  
  "Roma-" Peter's voice was barely his own, so heavy with the need only his wolf knew by means of satisfaction and cravings.  
  
  Roman pushed Peter up against a nearby wall by which a number of slanted church pews slowly losing their battle to the fading spirit that was one a great Religion remained.   
  The Upir's slender hands pulled roughly at the other boys hips. He could smell the dust on Peter's skin as the walls of the church called out to this indecency, this exposure and defiling of her sacred walls.   
  Roman refused to acknowledge the emptiness, the space he coul feel growing in his mind. He replaced the thoughts with the scent of Peter Rumancek, his Gypsy boy; burying his lips in the crook of the other boys neck. Inhaling in warm slow that spiced scent he'd come to know so well.  
 Roman's other hand trailed up to cup Peter's bum in playful soft as the smaller man let out a rough mewl of sorts. Roman smiled at that, nipping up Peter's collar, biting in soft and bruising tawny skin there. He lett their centers slide against one another, heat resonating in each brush and grind of their bodies.   
  With a jean clad roll of hips that rivaled the skill of your average High School Freshmen by means of creativity, Roman kissed softly at Peter's throat, his Adam's apple, so delicate the form before him suprised Peter by means of touch.   
  
  "Fuck, Godfrey." Peter's nature made it hard for him to know of bearing his throat. What it meant to his blood was completely different, even by means of courting and romance. He felt a sharp burning in him as those lush lips traced his sensetive curve, that of his throat and pulse. His muscles tensed, but only so much to shift. His chin tilted ever so slightly as his hips pressed forward, wandering hands roaming up Roman's thin undershirt. He could feel the low hum of a grow--much more of a purr--press in the hollowed flesh of his throat.   
  Roman's hips were much sharper than Peter's, fitting into soft curves that made up the shorter Romani.   
  
  Like a mismatched puzzle of sorts they fit. Not entirely, not completely, but enough that there was an understanding. And considering Peter's lineage, both of theirs, that was the crucial factor that determined their fate lines, the fatal or mortal strings that bound them to one another.  
  
  Roman knew that. The Upir heir could smell the growing submission that seeped into the sweat and skin of the boy beneath him. Roman let his hip curve up, brush and bump against Peter until the curve of the Werewolf's throat was a long strip of blushing red; his mewling growls inaudible with curses and expletive groans, pleas. Roman was very pleased with himself in that moment, feeling the almost stinging ache of the orgasm that lay bundled and taut in his length, curved in the boxer briefs he simply cared not if he spoiled in that moment.  
  
  Oh how mother would enjoy washing his laundy then.  
  
  "Please-" And there was the word that set Roman's entire being into overdrive. It made the Upir's pupils dilate, darken and consume the ocean blue green hues that swam in his skull. He could feel the soft lengths of his fangs extend, brushing the skin that so vibrated beneath him.   
  
  "Roman-" Peter ran his hands up Roman's slender sides, gripping blunt nails into the soft porcelain skin that lay beneath thin clothes. His hips pressed up harder, faster, a desperation in the way they jerked that Peter knew was not built into his constructive DNA. Roman set something in his genetic profile aflame. Burned the ways of his people to ashes within them and then rose with them from the flames to claim Peter in a way that even his mother, Lynda, even Olivia--the entire town--would never understand. No one could.  
  
  No one but them.  
  
  "Close-" The Romani whimpered in the low, more of a growl than anything, and Roman pressed his fangs to the boys pulsating vein in soft, a bittersweet slow that reeked of control and sentiments he shouldn't have been keeping. Both boys were animals, only Roman...Roman was still coming terms with how he could be. How he coul be one and be loved. Loved...by the boy he'd failed and protected and dropped his guard down for. His one and only friend. Peter Rumancek; the Gypsy who's fate defined his own.  
  
  "I know baby," Roman let his cool tongue flick over the light bite marks in his others neck. A soft tinge of metal lasted on his tongue and before he could make out if it was his or Peter's, his hips rocked up of their own will; spurring on the all consuming breakdown that wrecked and made use of his body and all of its tensions. He could feel the spastic volts of electricity and ecstasy blind his body in a beautiful white tinged by tendrils of a darkness that threatened to weigh him down in the aftermath exhaustion.  
  
  Peter came with small spastic thrusts against Roman's hip, thigh. His little wolf-like growls left his lips in barely-there moans, a soft bundle of breaths and pants Roman had learned to calm himself and listen to in the following comedown.  
  
  "Jesus christ," Peter sighed out, arms buzzing, thighs still shaking at the toll they had taken on each other in the moments before. "Couldn't you have waited until we got to the c-?"  
  
  Roman pressed his cooling lips, still the sweetest candy-apple red, to Peter's lips.  
  
  "No." Roman whispered as he shook his head with a blissed out smirk; voice heavy, breathless, lost and somehow--with Peter--found. "No, I couldn't."

**Author's Note:**

> Basically this was an excercise to help soothe the massive writers block I've had? I'M SO SORRY.


End file.
